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that writers of verse generally encounter, but may to others "Virum volitare per ora." I look to the incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself few who will hear with patience "dulce est desipere on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at in loco."-To the former worthies I resign, without my age, more usefully employed. These produc- repining, the hope of immortality, and content mytions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young self with the not very magnificent prospect of rankman who has lately completed his nineteenth year. ing "among the mob of gentlemen who write ;"— As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, my readers must determine whether I dare say "with this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. Some ease," or the honor of a posthumous page in "The few were written during the disadvantages of illness Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors," a work to and depression of spirits; under the former influ- which the peerage is under infinite obligations, inence, CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS," in particular, asmuch as many names of considerable length, were composed. This consideration, though it can- sound, and antiquity, are thereby rescued from the not excite the voice of Praise, may at least arrest obscurity which unluckily overshadows several volthe arm of Censure. A considerable portion of these uminous productions of their illustrious bearers. poems has been privately printed, at the request With slight hopes and some fears, I publish this and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible first and last attempt. To the dictates of young that the partial and frequently injudicious admira- ambition may be ascribed many actions more crimtion of a social circle is not the criterion by which inal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age poetical genius is to be estimated, yet, "to do the contents may afford amusement: I trust they greatly," we must "dare greatly;" and I have haz-will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly imarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this probable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, volume. "I have passed the Rubicon," and must that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on stand or fall by the "cast of the die." In the latter the public; nor even in the very doubtful event of event, I shall submit without a murmur; for, present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit though not without solicitude for the fate of these a future trespass of the same nature. The opinion effusions, my expectations are by no means san- of Dr. Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of guine. It is probable that I may have dared much mine, "That when a man of rank appeared in the and done little; for, in the words of Cowper, "it is character of an author, his merit should be handone thing to write what may please our friends, who, somely acknowledged," can have little weight with because they are such, are apt to be a little biased verbal, and still less with periodical censors; but in our favor, and another to write what may please were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself every body; because they who have no connection, of the privilege, and would rather incur the bitteror even knowledge of the author, will be sure to est censure of anonymous criticism than triumph in find fault if they can." To the truth of this, how- honors granted solely to a title. ever, I do not wholly subscribe: on the contrary, I feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed; their numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favor which has been denied to others of maturer years, decided

ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.

character, and far greater ability. I have not aimed WHY DOST THOU BUILD THE HALL, SON OF THE

WINGED DAYS? THOU LOOKEST FROM THY TOWER
TO-DAY: YET A FEW YEARS AND THE BLAST OF
THE DESERT COMES, IT HOWLS IN THY EMPTY
COURT.-Ossian.t

at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any particular model for imitation: some translations are given of which many are paraphrastic. In the original pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with authors whose works I have been accustomed to read; but I have not been guilty of inten-THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow tional plagiarism. To produce any thing entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Hercu

winds whistle;

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay;

the way.

rattle,

Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.

lean task, as every subject has already been treated In thy orce smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my Have choked up the rose which late bloomed in primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me "to this sin :" little can be expected from Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain. must be, is all I shall derive from these productions; The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast and I shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless moun- No taineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not, of late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the list with genuine bards, who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions; while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the latter, and in all proba-applause, to which, by their intrinsic worth, they were well entitled.

bility with a very slight share of the former. I leave

more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,

Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd
wreath ;

Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistant slumbers,
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.

• The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received the meed of public

The motto was added in the first edition of Hours of Idleness.
Horistan Castle, in Derbyshire, an ancient seat of the Byron family

wander'd,

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy; | Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I
For the safety of Edward and England they fell:
My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye;
How you fought, how you died, still her annals
can tell.

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On Marston, with Rupert,† 'gainst traitors contending,

Four brothers enriched with their blood the bleak
field;

For the rights of a monarch their country defending,
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd.

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing

From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.

To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray.

I once more view the room with spectators sur rounded,

Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; While to swell my young pride such applauses resounded,

I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone:

Or, as Lear, I poured forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived;
Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived.

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast: t
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you;
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest

To Idat full oft may remembrance restore me,
While fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul.

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish;
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown; But if, through the course of the years which
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your

own.

1803.

await me,

Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,

"Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew."

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EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.*

Αστηρ τριν μεν έλαμπες ενι ζωοισιν εφος.

Laertius.

Oн, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear, t
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honor'd bier!
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force,
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honor, and thy friend's delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh

The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none like thee his dying hour will cheer,
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image what new friendship can efface?
Ah none!-a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary friendship sighs alone.

A FRAGMENT.

1803.

WHEN, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh may my shade behold no sculptured urns"
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthened scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone,
My epitaph shall be my name alone:
If that with honor fail to crown my clay,
Oh may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot..

1803.

• These lines were printed in the private volume, the title being "Epitaph

en a beloved Friend." The motto was added in the first edition of Hours of dleness.

"Oh, Boy! for ever loved, for ever dear."-Private volume.

"Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born,

No titles did thy humble name adorn;

To me far dearer was thy artless love

Than all the joys wealth, fame, and friends could prove:

For thee alone I lived, or wish'd to live;
Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive!
Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom,
Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb;
Where, this frail form composed in endless rest,
I'll make my last cold pillow on thy breast;
That breast where oft in life I've laid my head,
Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead;
This life resign'd without one parting sigh,
Together in one bed of earth we'll lie!
Together share the fate to mortals given,
Together mix our dust, and hope for heaven."

Such was the conclusion in the private volume.

"No lengthen'd scroll of virtue and renown."

Private volume, and first edition of Hours of Idleness. "By that remember'd, or fore'er torgot."-Private volume.

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Where love chased each fast-fleeting year,

Loth to leave thee, I mourned,

For a last look I turn'd,

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.

Though my vows I can pour

To my Mary no more,

My Mary to Love once so dear,
In the shade of her bower

I remember the hour

She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest,
May she live ever blest!

Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign

What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart,
Ere from you I depart,

This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet
In this rural retreat,

May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

When my soul wings her flight To the regions of night, And my corse shall recline on its bier, As ye pass by the tomb

Where my ashes consume,

Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow

The splendor of wo

Which the children of vanity rear:

No fiction of fame

Shall blazon my name;

All I ask-all I wish-is a Tear.

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DEAR simple girl, those flattering arts,
From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,
Exist but in imagination-

Mere phantoms of thine own creation;
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polished mirror glance,
Thou'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises :

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery,-'tis truth.

July, 1804.

TO

October 26, 1806.

TO MISS PIGOT.†

ELIZA, what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who to women deny the soul's future existence,
Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect,
And this doctrine would meet with a general re-
sistance.

Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, He ne'er would have women from paradise driven, Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence,

With women alone he had peopled his heaven.

Yet still to increase your calamities more,

Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots one poor husband to share amongst four! 1 With souls you'd dispense; but this last, who could bear it?

His religion to please neither party is made;

On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil; Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, "Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil."

"And my body shall sleep on its tier."-Private volume. Found only in the private volume.

THE CORNELIAN.†

No specious splendor of this stone Endears it to my memory ever; With lustre only once it shone,

And blushes modest as the giver.

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, Have for my weakness oft reproved me; Yet still the simple gift I prize,

For I am sure the giver loved me.

He offer'd it with downcast look,

As fearful that I might refuse it; I told him when the gift I took,

My only fear should be to lose it.

This pledge attentively I view'd,

And sparkling as I held it near, Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, And ever since I've loved a tear.

Still, to adorn his humble youth,

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But he who seeks the flowers of truth,

Must quit the garden for the field.

"Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,
Which beauty shows and sheds perfume;
The flowers which yield the most of both
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.

• Only printed in the private volume.

To young Eddleston. This poem is only found in the private volume

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